Chapter 29 #2
“Yes, boss,” Remy says, and I slide back to my cushion, breathless and certain in a way that scares me and settles me all at once.
We take our time with the little things.
Our small family Christmas is complete, and the day is just getting started.
I set the pans on the stove to rest, drizzle the cinnamon rolls with more icing than they need, and take a long look at the kitchen, at the tree, at my people.
If the day stopped right here, I would still call it perfect.
The door bursts open, which is how the best parts of our life always seem to arrive, and the house fills with cold air and voices.
Willa and Tate first, then Finn and Rowan with Lilith right behind, and Donna and Pete last. The living room goes from serene to alive in three seconds.
Coats fly to hooks. Scarves land in a heap.
Someone’s hat lands on Lola and she looks personally offended and then climbs onto the couch to recover her dignity.
“Merry Christmas,” Willa sings, and sweeps me into a hug that smells like frost and peppermint.
“You made so much good food,” Tate says, peering around me in the direction of the kitchen.
“What can I say; it’s Christmas.” I grin.
Pete follows with his hat in his hands and a look like he cannot believe his luck. He squeezes my shoulder and tells me it already smells like the best Christmas he has ever had.
I did not plan to cry before brunch. I wipe my eyes and blame the onions.
We pass plates and forks and mugs and napkins, and it is chaos in the sweet way. Remy looks happy and content, more relaxed than I’ve seen him in weeks. Tate returns to the counter for seconds and steals the corner cinnamon roll that has extra icing like we cannot all see him.
Junie opens the rest of her gifts in the middle of the floor like a sun with planets around her.
She holds up each thing for us to admire.
New mittens from Willa that match mine. A wooden puzzle of a forest from Lilith and Rowan.
A handmade scarf from Donna that has tiny hearts knit into the pattern.
Pete presents a little tool belt that fits her and has safe kid tools, and she hugs his knees.
We eat until the house smells like new memories.
The sausage casserole disappears first because men named Finn exist. The cinnamon rolls earn praise that makes me blush.
They vanish in a way that suggest a crime was committed.
Someone starts a game in the corner that involves charades and a paper crown, and Rowan will not stand down from anything.
Finn tries to get out of the paper crown and fails.
The crown sits on his head at a dignified tilt, and he looks very handsome and surprised about it.
Willa takes photos from the ladder in the library doorway and then makes me stand with Remy under the frame that says Our Family and kisses the top of my head while she clicks the shutter because she is documenting history.
I sneak back to the kitchen to refill the coffee kettle and find Remy already there, stacking plates in tidy towers and rinsing forks like the world depends on it.
He hums something under his breath, and his hair curls the tiniest bit at his neck from the heat in here.
I stand and watch him. It is possible I have never loved anyone more than I love this man rinsing forks on Christmas morning.
“You don’t have to do this by yourself,” I say, stepping up beside him to take a dish towel.
“You already made half a feast and played Santa,” he says. “Let me do the boring part.”
“I like the boring part if you are in it.”
He sets the plate down and turns. Wet hands touch my waist where the sweater lifts. I shiver and move closer. He smells like coffee, cold air, and a little of the pine that seems to cling to him even on a day off.
“Why do you look at me like that,” he asks, soft and curious.
“Because you are mine,” I say.
He kisses me like a seal on a promise. Someone wolf whistles in the living room, and Donna yells to get a room and then follows it with a comment about eventually giving her grandbabies, and I laugh into his mouth because I love this family, and I love this man and I am not afraid of wanting things anymore.
We load the dishwasher together, moving in a little dance we have not practiced but always know. When he reaches for a stack of bowls and I beat him to it, he smiles like the soup at the center of winter just got richer.
When the last guest finally leans a shoulder into my shoulder and says thank you, when they leave with leftover plates and hugs that take longer than normal, when the house settles and the air still glitters with something I cannot name, I wrap both arms around Remy’s waist and press my face into his chest.
He runs a hand down my back. “Thank you for making this house a home. Why don’t you go read in your new library? Put your feet up. I’ll finish.”
I tilt my head back to see his eyes. “I will, after. I want to be with you.”
He searches my face for a second that feels like forever. Then he kisses my forehead and nods. “Okay. Then be with me.”
We wipe the counters and fold the cloth napkins.
We step into the living room together and right a pillow that fell.
Lola lifts her head and pretends she was not snoring.
Junie sprawls on her stomach with her new books, reading aloud words she is maybe guessing at and still making true.
The tree twinkles. The radio plays a quiet song that must have been written before any of us were born.
Later, when the kitchen sighs in that particular after-dinner way, he takes my hand and draws me down the hall. I know where he is going before we turn the corner. The library waits, golden in the winter afternoon. The canvas of the three of us catches the glow and throws it back.
We sink into the oversized chair by the window, our legs tangling in the blanket across our laps.
I open one of the new books, the one with the pressed flowers on the cover, and read a page aloud, then read the same page again because he likes the sound of my voice on words.
He kisses my wrist every time I turn a page.
After a while, we stop reading. We stare at the snow falling and talk about nothing and everything.
What to make for dinner if we are ever hungry again.
When to take Junie sledding. How many people Rowan will recruit for her New Year’s Day plunge in the cove and how many will regret it immediately.
Whether the lights on the tree can stay until February if we pretend the season still needs them.
We are soaking up every last ounce of holiday joy.
“I want a hundred more Christmases like this,” I say.
“You are going to get them,” he says.
I believe in the way Remy looks at me, like the lights came on for the first time, and he never wants them to go dark again.